


Notes of Melancholy

by DarkoftheMoon



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alcohol/winos, Eventual Smut, F/M, Forgiveness, Grief and Loss, Harry Potter Epilogue What Epilogue | EWE, Healing, Letters, Ministry of Magic Employee Hermione Granger, Music, Neighbors, POV Hermione Granger, Pianist Draco Malfoy, Post-War
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-08
Updated: 2020-11-13
Packaged: 2021-03-09 05:21:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 15,817
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27409507
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DarkoftheMoon/pseuds/DarkoftheMoon
Summary: The war is over and Hermione Granger is haunted by loss. She spends her days going through the motions, following routines to keep it together. The sounds of her neighbor's nightly piano playing slowly stitches her broken heart back together. When she musters up the last of her Gryffindor courage to thank them, a familiar face opens the door.
Relationships: Hermione Granger/Draco Malfoy
Comments: 144
Kudos: 404





	1. lacrimosa

**Author's Note:**

> _Notes of Melancholy_ [playlist](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/51MPOfVEssypTnh8gLDFLl?si=pREn80BPSVKuzmZUyn_HLw)

Hermione Granger was never one to go through the motions. But the exhaustion of the last year had caught up with her. Not to mention the endless cycle of grief. The faces of those lost flashing behind her eyes at the most random of moments. Writing a memo about dragon’s eggs would conjure her parents, and the blank stares on their faces after she’d taken their memories. Waiting for the lift would show Tonks and Lupin, their hands resting centimeters apart where they lay. Dead. The pale, blood-drained Lavender Brown, looking up at her from the stone floor when she walked across the pavement to her flat. Careful not to step on a crack.

The hardest thing to get used to was the monotony. Every day she woke, made a cup of coffee, and drank it while reading the _Prophet._ She got dressed and left for work. Took the same bus with the same passengers, give or take a few. Sometimes she’d see ghosts. Colin Creevey would board at the third stop and ride along with her. She made sure to arrive at the Ministry thirty minutes early so that she was less likely to have to talk to anyone. For lunch she ordered one of the same three things from the café. The meal would appear on her desk at noon. She would pick at it until it was finally time to leave.

Routine had become nearly essential. If she just got through the day, and kept things predictable, maybe she wouldn’t think about it. If things were the same, she would be ready for the moments of horror and sadness and outrage. If she reviewed the reports on house elf mistreatment and proposed legislature the hours would pass quicker. If she pretended that things were normal, like everyone else seemed to, maybe they would start to feel that way.

She waited until her entire floor left for the day to go home. The last little wave goodbye from whoever had dallied. Some days it meant she was there long after the sun had set and she had to consult her bus schedule. For the most part, Margaret Sanderson left around 6pm and Hermione would begin her trip home five minutes later. And every day she wondered what song she would hear when she got there.

The first time she heard music coming from her neighbor’s flat, it was a Tuesday in June. A month after the end. At 9 o’clock sharp. She’d only just gotten home after an ill-advised trip to the Leaky for drinks with her friends. The soft sounds of the keys was new. It wasn’t in her routine and she found herself fascinated rather than shaken. The next day she was surprised to hear it again. And the next. Eventually, it became a part of her day — the best part of her day.

Because the sad melodies of whoever lived in number 9 filled the cracks in her heart, little by little. The trailing notes across the keys like an echo of her own sadness. A call and response. As if the person playing it understood her in a way that her friends didn’t.

Ron had his family to grieve with. Still lived at the Burrow where he could hold his mum in his arms. Share memories of Fred with his brothers and sister. Harry was there more often than not. Though Hermione was welcome she rarely went as the months wore on. Seeing Mrs. Weasley tuck Ginny’s hair behind her ears. Listening to Mr. Weasley give Percy advice. It hurt too much. The quiet banalities of being a family. The specific annoyance of your mother fussing. The cringe-inducing jokes from your father. All things that she never thought she would ache for. Just one last little chuckle from her dad. One more _tut_ from her mum.

So instead she lived alone with her grouchy old cat and empty wine bottles. A fridge full of cold pasta and takeaway from the same rotation of restaurants. And her mysterious pianist neighbor.

Most days, even though she kept the same schedule down to nearly the minute, she found herself walking quicker to get home. Terrified that she’d miss the nightly performance. What if the bus was late? What if there was traffic and they stopped moving long enough that the entire route was thrown off, and she didn’t get home until well after the notes had faded?

Sometimes it was just one song, played with a gentle hand. Others it was nearly an hour of music, as if they needed to keep playing just a little bit longer, to stretch out the notes a little bit further. Reaching for something in the sounds. Something that Hermione greedily took for herself.

It was the only time she was knowingly selfish.

With a yank of the corkscrew she opened a new bottle of wine and poured it. The flat was an untidy mess but she cleaned it up every Friday. It meant she went into the weekend with one less thing to worry about. The clock moved particularly slowly on Fridays. It was her favorite day, not only because work was over and she didn’t have to put on a false smile for two whole days, but because the pianist usually played a longer set. So she tidied the flat with a few flicks of her wand, sending errant shoes to to her closet and books back onto their shelves. Then she sipped her wine after letting it breathe in its glass instead of just guzzling half the bottle out of an oversized coffee mug.

Crookshanks narrowed his eerie golden eyes at her. She’d changed into her favorite navy jumper and a clean pair of jeans instead of her pajamas, so the cat was naturally suspicious. Even he knew her routines.

“Don’t give me that look,” she said to the creature, giving him a scratch under his chin. “I’m merely considering it.”

Crookshanks tilted his fluffy head, as if to inquire further. Letting out a purr that was half growl.

Hermione sighed. “Dr. Walker said I should try. Even something small.” Like introducing herself to her neighbor. There was only one other flat on her floor. One other tenant.

The clock struck nine, and she held her breath, casting her eyes to the wall she shared with the pianist. Whoever they were, they were considerate and quiet. She wasn’t even sure if they’d lived there before she arrived or if they’d moved in at some point over the first few piano-free weeks she’d been a resident. That was three months ago. Hermione barely heard their footsteps on the hardwood floor and they never slammed doors or cupboards. They seemed to move through their day much like she did. Like the ghost of one’s pre-war self. But she lived in a Muggle apartment building, surrounded by people who had never heard of her or Harry or Voldemort or any of it. She wondered what ghosts her neighbor had.

Therapy seemed like the logical thing to do once the war was over and the wizarding world slowly started to return to normal. She’d found a Muggle therapist and carefully crafted a version of herself that would allow her to share her trauma without talking about magic. On Wednesdays she left work an hour early for her appointments with Dr. Georgiana Walker, a young woman with a lovely office filled with lush plants and calming art. A small bubbling fountain in the corner.

“Have you made an effort to see your friends in the last week?” She’d asked two days before, in her warm timbre. Everything about Dr. Walker was warm. It was part of what drew Hermione to the therapist in the first place, after a few weeks of trying out different ones. She wore her hair in twisted braids, gathered high on her head. Clothes almost always a shade of purple — deep amethyst and plum. Or the dark, reddish-purple of a pinot noir. The pale lavender and lilacs of springtime, lovely against her dark skin. And her eyes were kind. Hermione always thought that you sense the truth of a person from their eyes.

Of course she hadn’t made an effort to see her friends. She’d received an owl from Neville, asking if she wanted to visit him at Hogwarts over the weekend. He was shadowing Professor Sprout, taking over her first and second year classes as she contemplated retirement. A lot of their professors were — McGonagall had written an editorial for the _Prophet_ about the importance of keeping Hogwarts a place of education and refuge for wizarding children. The need for more educators to join them in at castle.

But the one time Hermione had been back there, it no longer felt like home. Didn’t feel safe even though it had been repaired and rebuilt. The protective wards restored. The Great Hall looked almost just as she’d remembered it from before, only the charmed ceiling had a certain haze to it that never seemed to go away. Her teachers bore scars and shared a haunted blankness behind their once cheerful smiles.

There were still missing stones in the facade. Pieces blasted apart by dark curses. The rebuilding team had decided to leave them as a reminder. Like the walls of the Victoria and Albert Museum in Muggle London, with its own reminders of the Second World War left in the masonry. The living wouldn’t forget but the future might need reminding, she supposed.

How strange that one day, perhaps not long from now, there would be students who didn’t know what caused the damaged walls. Who didn’t feel the lingering sadness. The hollow guilt. The need to scream. How strange to be so lucky.

She’d left Neville’s owl unanswered. Like most of the letters she received.

“I might try to have lunch with Harry one day next week,” she’d said instead. Dr. Walker nodded solemnly.

“What do you mean when you say you _might_ try? His office is near yours, right?”

She’d told Dr. Walker that she worked for a small, underfunded charity and that Harry was a lawyer. Ron managed a toy shop with his older brother. Neville was a teacher. Luna, a journalist. Ginny played football semiprofessionally. Her parents had suffered an irreparable accident that she felt responsible for. All half truths and easy enough to keep track of.

“It is but he’s rather busy with a case. He might not have the time for it.”

“What about the other things we’ve talked about to try to help your social anxiety?” Dr. Walker jotted a note and looked up at her. Endless patience and grace in the brown eyes behind her glasses.

_You seem to take a lot of healing from your neighbor’s piano playing. Have you thought about introducing yourself? Saying thank you?_

“Maybe I could try one of the…easier ones,” she’d said.

Now she sipped her wine and paced the flat. Walking circles around her mismatched furniture she’d bought secondhand. Crookshanks swished his tail, annoyed. Hermione had put on mascara and tamed her hair, pulling the front pieces back with a barrette she got in France with her parents one summer. It was more effort than she’d managed since Bill and Fleur’s wedding last year.

At 9:02 the music started. Quiet scales to warm up. A little bit of Debussy. More of what she was beginning to suspect was an original work. A haunting melody that sounded like loneliness and felt like it was written just for her. She’d come to learn the subtle changes the pianist made to it whenever they played it. The way the notes had started to crest into new arrangements. Sometimes she would find herself humming it to herself. At her desk or on the bus or while she washed her coffee mugs the Muggle way out of habit.

For an hour the pianist composed and played, filling her apartment with the sounds. When they finished she closed her eyes and said a silent prayer of gratitude. Felt the fissures in her heart knit together by another stitch. She’d bought a more expensive wine that night, using the extra couple quid spent as a way to bolster her resolve. To do what she told Dr. Walker she would do. The last dregs of the bottle went down easily. With the remaining shred of her former Gryffindor courage she looked at herself in the mirror by the door. Her lips were a little stained from the wine but she thought that she looked, if not friendly, then at the very least almost normal. The music always soothed her. Took away the careful mask that she put on each day, just in case she had to talk to someone. It left her looking like herself once more.

 _Hello, I live next door,_ she practiced in her mind. A script she had workshopped over the last two and a half days. _Hi —_ no, _hello — My name’s —_ no just say _hello._ It all felt inadequate.

The door to apartment 9 was only a few feet away from her own. Made of the same dark wood. The same brass number at the center. Same worn carpeting in the short and narrow hall. For a minute she just stared at the number, taking some practiced breaths. Hearing Dr. Walker’s reassuring voice in her head. Repeating it, like a mantra. _Just knock and tell them you love their music. Thank them. Or just say hello. Whatever you say, just knock._

So she did. There were a few quiet steps. The sound of the chain being removed and the deadbolt and another lock. Then the door swung open with a yawn.

But where she expected to meet someone new, perhaps a retiree who once taught piano, she was instead greeted by a face she hadn’t seen since May. When he’d been across the Great Hall. Sitting with his family. Ashen and ostracized. Occasionally she’d read his name in the paper in the months since.

“You,” she said, barely a whisper.

“Granger,” he replied. When she didn’t say anything else he added, “I didn’t realize you lived here.”

She took in his tall frame, dressed as casually as she’d ever seen him — he’d worn bespoke suits, the last she’d known. A somewhat rumpled black jumper and trousers were unexpected. Speckled black cashmere socks on his feet. The platinum hair was longer and artfully disheveled, like young film stars in Muggle magazines. But it was the dark smudges under his eyes that she lingered on. The way the shadows of grief and insomnia mirrored her own, though his eyes, cold like ice when they were in school, weren’t what she’d remembered.

“You don’t—I thought you lived at your,” she paused, pushing the memories down her throat, “At the manor.” A mirthless laugh peeled through her mind. Coarse black curls and jagged teeth.

He shook his head, lips pressed in a firm line. “No. No, I moved out.”

Behind him was a much neater flat than her own. She tilted her head slightly to try to see details but he narrowed his gaze at her snooping.

“It’s just that, you know, this is a Muggle apartment building—”

“Yes, I’m aware.”

“Sorry. It’s— You’re probably the last person I expected to open the door.”

“And you’re the last person I expected to knock, so I suppose that makes us both fools,” he drawled, crossing his arms over his chest and leaning in the doorframe. Crowding the space. “Did you need something? Cup of sugar?”

“What? No. I—The piano,” she started, but he cut her off.

“I didn’t realize it was so loud. I’ll try not to play too late at night, if it bothers you.”

“No, not at all. I actually came by to introduce myself to whoever was playing and—I don’t know, thank them,” she said in a rush.

Malfoy arched a regal brow. “Really? Why would you do that?”

Hermione wrung her hands and looked at her feet. “Because I look forward to hearing it every day.” She cleared her throat and made herself meet his eyes again. The blue so faint in the grey. “Thank you for playing. Have a nice evening,” she said, then turned and went back into her apartment.

It was her nineteenth birthday.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [lacrimosa](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=aFgk8-zUTJ8) translates to weeping or tearful in Latin. 
> 
> Inspired by [this prompt](https://twitter.com/galacticidiots/status/1323191569952968706?s=20) from the master, Fran ([AO3](https://archiveofourown.org/users/BensCalligraphySet/pseuds/BensCalligraphySet/works?fandom_id=101375), [Twitter](https://twitter.com/galacticidiots)).


	2. tu me fascines

For the next week he continued to play and she continued to listen, every day, right on schedule. It was strange to know that the music she’d come to think of as an extension of herself came from Malfoy. Perhaps her polar opposite — though she thought about him more and more as the days went on and she struggled to focus on what those opposites were.

Throughout their time together at school she’d thought about their differences — pureblood and Muggleborn, Gryffindor and Slytherin. The Golden Girl and the Serpent Prince. She hadn’t spend much time thinking about all the ways they were similar. Schoolyard grudges and blood feuds were difficult to overlook.

But Malfoy was smart — top of their class, other than her, levels of smart. If he hadn’t been one of the so-called Sacred 28 he would have made a decent Ravenclaw. Then again, so would she. It was a thought she had, late at night when the sounds of war thrummed behind her eyes and she couldn’t sleep. What if she’d been sorted differently? Would she still have been at the front of the war? Still been carved up on the polished drawing room floor of a manor house? Would she still have to check her locks three times and reset her wards just to fall into restless sleep? Would he?

On Monday she slipped a note under his door before she left for work.

_How long have you played piano?_

_H_

It took her three tries to get there the night before, over a few glasses. She’d originally written something longer, saying hello and how funny it was that they were neighbors. But it wasn’t funny; that was just a stupid turn of phrase. She heard Dr. Walker’s voice. _Just knock_. And she had. The note was a _Just knock_ equivalent.

All day her stomach was in knots. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d had a conversation with Malfoy. If you could call his sneered insults followed by her own retorts a conversation. Once, in fifth year, they’d both answered Professor Sprout’s questions in tandem. No one else had done the reading on harvesting Angel’s Trumpet. Maybe that was the last time.

Harry stopped by her desk to say hello. She smiled and nodded. Listened to him talk about the stress of the case he was working on. Asked after Ginny and the rest of the Weasleys. Avoided his suggestion that she visit Ron at the joke shop. Promised to send him a memo later that week.

She’d already finished her work for the week. There was only so much she could do with the files in her desk. The fundraising letters she’d sent on Friday had yet to receive responses. Most of her day was spent practicing her breathing. _Lengthen your breaths, Hermione_.

When Margaret finally zipped off a last memo and waved goodbye, she waited the cursory five minutes before heading to the lifts. The bus was three minutes late. Her leg shook with anxiety, bouncing until the man seated next to her loudly cleared his throat and she stopped.

Hermione made herself walk and not run up the stairs to her flat. The key fumbled in her fingers as she opened the locks and cast her silent spells to open the wards. There, just inside the door, was a piece of dove grey parchment. Folded once. She snatched it off the floor and opened it.

_Lessons began at 3._

_Magical Creatures Department at the Ministry?_

_D_

She crossed the small space to her desk. A rickety old thing pressed against the window. The parchment from the night before was still out, tucked under her empty wine glass. She grabbed a quill and scrambled to find a pot of ink that wasn’t dried out. Hastily scratched a reply then crumbled it up, selecting a fresh sheet of parchment and taking her time to ensure her letters were neat.

They traded notes for the next few days.

_Why Muggle London?_

_H_

~

_For the quiet. You?_

_D_

_~_

_Where else would I go?_

_H_

_~_

_Can’t imagine you’d enjoy Siberia._

_Those fur hats are probably made of kneazles._

_D_

It became the second best part of her day, after the piano. By Friday she was a bundle of nervous excitement for the nightly performance. He’d been playing the original piece more and more, as if he was workshopping it. Little changes here and there. It was almost the length of a full song now, though he seemed to be stuck on the end. She wasn’t musically inclined enough to guess where he would take the notes but she held her breath each time she heard the familiar chords of the beginning.

She’d been thinking about it, humming the repeated notes to herself, when she ran into Harry in the lifts. When he asked if she wanted to have lunch together on Monday she said yes without hesitating or coming up with an excuse. Dr. Walker was supportive of her new pen pal venture, _Notes are a good step forward_ , she’d said in their last session. Even Crookshanks seemed a little less grouchy since she’d started writing her notes to Malfoy.

That night he played for more than an hour and it still didn’t feel like enough. When he’d finished, she counted to one hundred before knocking on his door.

“Granger,” he said, holding the door open with one hand. Grey jumper and black trousers. Dark green socks.

Without speaking, she held the bottle out for his inspection. He squinted at the label then clenched his jaw and stood aside for her to enter. Flicking his eyes between her and the hall.

She heard him lock and latch the door behind her and mutter his own wards — a similar combination of charms to the ones that she used. The flat had the same layout, too. A single living space with a small kitchen and enough room for a smattering of furniture. Where she had a dining table that could seat up to four but had only ever sat herself, a desk, and a battered old armchair, he had a cushy velvet sofa, elegant coffee table stacked with books, and an upright piano. Some Muggle paintings on the walls. A large bookshelf in the corner. The doors for the washroom and bedroom were shut.

While she surveyed the space, careful not to touch anything, he rummaged in a cupboard and produced two glasses. Then summoned the bottle of wine from her hands and set it to pour.

“Nothing better to do on a Friday night?” He asked, floating a glass to her.

“I’m not exactly a social butterfly these days,” she replied. The wine was decent, and it should have been, considering what she paid for it compared to her usual bottle. She knew he was used to fine things, even if he lived in the same dodgy building as her. “I hope I didn’t interrupt—”

“I’m not exactly social either, if you couldn’t guess.”

Hermione nodded and sipped her drink, careful not to gulp it down too quickly. “You don’t see your friends much?”

Malfoy shrugged and slouched against the counter, breathing in the bouquet of the wine. The woman at the wine shop had recommended it for its notes of vanilla and pomegranate. “Half of their fathers are in Azkaban because of my testimony against them or my father’s. Doesn’t really get the owls flying with invitations for supper.”

Before sixth year he’d always had a gang of Slytherins around him. But then again, she’d always had her own friends nearby, too.

“Why aren’t you?” He asked.

“Why aren’t I what?”

“Social. What about the Golden Trio and all the other Griffyndors you used to surround yourself with? You and the Weasel break up?”

Hermione laughed the fake laugh she’d taken to using when small talk turned personal. It felt even worse in his presence. “We were…a fleeting moment in time. Better as friends. Last I knew he was seeing Parvati Patil.”

“Would have thought she had better taste.”

She ignored the jab about _her_ taste. “Well, she was Lavender’s best friend. I imagine they were brought together by their grief.”

Malfoy was quiet while he drained his glass. Neither of them had bothered to sit down.“And what about your grief?”

The glass in her hand was delicate. The single drop of Bordeaux at the bottom like the blood she could never scrub from the shoes she wore that day. Left to gather dust underneath her bed.

When she met his storm-cloud eyes she said, “It’s better this way.”

“Being alone in it?”

She nodded.

“I thought so, too.”

* * *

As the weeks went by Hermione continued to go through her routine. To ride the bus, absently staring out the window at the gloomy October streets of London. To arrive at the Ministry early. Only now she had had one lunch with Harry and written an apology to Neville. She’d even answered an old letter from Ginny, who was off playing quidditch abroad.

And every day she passed notes with her neighbor. Typically she slipped her note under his door on her way out and there would be a reply waiting for her when she got home.

_What do you do all day?_

_H_

_~_

_Crossword puzzles._

_D_

She’d scoffed at that one, the door barely shut behind her, when a second note scurried across her threshold.

_Finishing my probationary requirements for the Ministry. Can only leave my flat once per day, to predetermined locations._

_No apparition or floo travel or portkeys. Limits on my wand._

_So yes, crossword puzzles. A few other boring things required by said probation._

_D_

Death Eater sentencing was public knowledge _._ Reported on extensively in the _Prophet_ throughout the summer. Most of them were in Azkaban, or had struck plea deals like Lucius Malfoy for house arrest by naming names and proving helpful to the Ministry. Allowing the search and seizure of any and all magical objects from their homes. Providing information to the aurors left cleaning up their messes. She knew from an article at the end of May that he’d had a lenient sentence of a year’s probation. Hermione wondered what he was leaving out.

Friday’s note was brief.

_Wine. 10pm._

_D_

After he played for an hour, adding a little bit more to original piece, Hermione knocked on the door. He welcomed her inside without a greeting. The wine was in a decanter on the counter and he poured her a glass. Whatever it was, it was smooth and she closed her eyes as she drank it.

They talked about books and compared theories about potion brewing methods. Eyes snagging on his long fingers and contemplating the elegant movements he seemed to possess. Graceful and refined, but there was something else there too. A self-consciousness that hadn’t been there before. In the way he tugged at the sleeve of his jumper and averted his eyes if she locked onto them for too long.

Neither of them moved to the sofa. Like they preferred to be slightly uncomfortable while they gradually finished the bottle. Hermione held onto the last few sips of her glass, not quite ready to leave. Maybe that was why she said it.

“No one talks about it.”

“People don’t talk about a number of things, you’ll have to be a bit more specific at this hour, after a few glasses,” he said. With a casual hand in his pocket he sauntered closer to his piano. Trailing a finger over the top, looking for dust that wasn’t there.

“What it’s like to grieve this much. How much it hurts. How tiring it is on every level.”

Malfoy watched her from the corner of his eye, standing over the keys. “Pain isn’t something that’s easy to articulate, I suppose.”

“It’s like everyone else has moved on and I can’t. How am I supposed to just…live my life when they’re gone? How is that fair?”

“Life’s rarely fair, Granger. I don’t think things necessarily get any better.”

“That’s a bit bleak, isn’t it?” She said.

“Maybe the pain doesn’t go away. It just gets less sharp.” He punctuated the thought with a single note on the keys.

When she was a girl, she’d had a few months of lessons. It was hard to keep up with it once she went to Hogwarts. But she drifted closer to where he stood in front of the instrument and lightly ran her right hand over the ivories, soft as a whisper. Then she played the few notes she could remember to one of the sonatas. Her notes were clumsy, and she couldn’t remember the movements for the left hand — but she didn’t have to, because he played them for her. In perfect pace with her slow presses of the keys though she knew he could play it in time.

She pulled her hands back and let him play, transitioning the notes into a nocturne. Seating himself at the bench so that he could press the pedals and stretch to either end of the keyboard. After a moment she sat beside him. Their hips pressed softly against each other in the small space. Then the melody changed, and she recognized the song he was composing. He’d closed his eyes while he played the first few chords, the ones that had been the same for months. When he opened them they were bright and focused, like they’d been whenever he worked on a particularly complicated potion. Only instead of a chilled anger beneath them there was sadness and the shadow of fear. The slope of his neck hunched a little further, as if he was ashamed. When he reached the part of the song where she knew he’d been stuck earlier, his fingers stumbled and he grunted, smashing a few deeper notes before pulling his hands away.

But her own were quicker, and she reach out, taking his left hand in both of hers. They were cold, and his fingers twitched.

“Don’t,” she said, running her thumb over his knuckles. “That one’s my favorite.” When she looked up at him he was watching her hand on his. Then his fingers tightened and his eyes, haunted and beautiful, found hers. She turned her body slightly to face him more fully. They breathed in tandem, inching closer until one or both of them closed the distance.

It had been months since she’d kissed anyone. Maybe she’d forgotten or maybe the ones she’d had previously weren’t very notable. But the light press of his lips and the racing of her heart coursed through her veins like lightning in a heatwave. The gentle pressure repeated where their hands tangled on her lap. Fingers caressing and hooking together. The cool silver of his signet ring. The taste of the dark wine.

The skin of his jaw was smooth where she cradled it in her palm. He curled a hand around the base of her neck, over her pulse point, to hold her in place. And she wondered if he could feel just how fast it was. His lips pulled her closer and she sighed, brushing her tongue against his. A nip of her teeth at his lower lip was answered with a hum of approval and a slight tug at her curls.

She was afraid to sink too deep — afraid that if she didn’t, she’d miss something just below the surface. Waiting in the depths.

Their eyes met as they pulled apart. He seemed to search hers before looking away and removing his hand from her cheek, ghosting over her throat. Then he untangled the other from her own. Standing and crossing to the opposite corner, suddenly interested in the titles of his alphabetized bookshelf.

He cleared his throat before he spoke, voice low. “Thanks for the wine, Granger. Show yourself out, yeah?” And he went to his bedroom and shut the door behind him.

For the first time in a long time, she slept through the night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [tu me fascines](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yfYaRw4FuAo) translates to _you fascinate me_.


	3. rêverie

There was a note waiting for her when she woke up. Dove grey parchment on the pine floor in front of her door. She summoned it to the kitchen where she was making a cup of tea, half asleep. It surprised her in more ways than one — there was the obvious worry about the night before, of course, but she usually wrote the first note. She replied and flicked her own notes back while nibbling on biscuits. The replies slid under her door almost as soon as she’d sent hers under his.

_Do you think everyone who was there that day can see the thestrals now?_

_D_

_~_

_I would imagine so. There was a lot of death. Hard to have avoided it._

_Do you think they’re frightening?_

_H_

_~_

_They’re not exactly the abraxans my ancestors raised but I oddly like them._

_I wonder why Hogwarts uses thestrals instead._

_If you want a flying horse you’d think more robust ones would be preferred._

_D_

_~_

_Maybe it’s because they’ll eat kitchen scraps and carrion. Less costly for the school._

_H_

_~_

_Granger, did you just make a joke?_

_D_

On Sunday she went to the corner shop for tea and a few basic groceries like she always did. She purchased the Muggle newspapers and did the crossword puzzles. Tried to take a nap with Crookshanks smothering her chest, his ginger fur tickling her nose.

The work week started as normal and routine. Her bus was on time. There were three responses from her fundraising pleas for wolfsbane to be made free for children who had been bitten by werewolves during the war. She would need to continue to write letters to see the project funded. Several potioneers had expressed interest in brewing the wolfsbane if they received the ingredients. And of course, the ingredients cost a gilded galleon. Funds were limited in her department.

On Wednesday she saw Dr. Walker. The water trickled from the fountain in the corner. Hermione fidgeted in her seat for the first fifteen minutes, preferring to tell Dr. Walker about work and how much progress she’d made with responding to unanswered letters from friends than to bring up what had happened five days before. But her therapist was worth the money — she knew when to push.

“I’m proud of you for writing to Luna, that took a lot of emotional bandwidth,” she said. Hermione nodded, casting her eyes about the room. The potted plant by the window had gone into a sort of hibernation from the lack of sunlight. It had been days of endless rain in London.

“How’s your pen pal?”

“Who?” The question caught Hermione off guard.

“Are you still exchanging notes with your neighbor?”

Yes, as if everything was normal and they hadn’t kissed. Instead of saying that she simply nodded.

“Would you like to tell me about them? Last we spoke you seemed quite keen on your new friend.”

She wondered how to explain to Dr. Walker that her neighbor, her new friend, was actually an old acquaintance. That she’d once landed a right hook against his pale cheek. Her knuckles were bruised for days. The purple and yellow had been a small source of pride, as had his own bruises. When Dr. Walker called her name, she realized she must have zoned out for longer than she’d thought.

“Sorry — just remembering. We were classmates, actually. A long time ago.”

“You must have a lot to talk about, then.” Dr. Walker pressed further. “Do you often reminisce?”

Hermione shook her head. “We didn’t exactly get on back then. We ran in different circles, you could say.”

“And what about now?”

That was the real question. Hermione crossed and uncrossed her arms. Aware of the tension in her shoulders. The crease that had no doubt formed between her eyes. _Toss it_ , she thought.

“We sort of— had a moment, on Friday. But then he seemed odd about it. Just sort of went to bed and I went home. And then there was a note under my door the next morning like nothing had happened. But something had. I don’t know what to do. I keep replying to his notes but—” she sighed. “Maybe I should just be happy with that.”

“Why do you think you should be happy with less than what you want?” Dr. Walker asked.

“Because it seems like it’s all that I have. Take what I can get or risk ruining what I have — seems reason enough.”

“If you’re content to write notes back and forth you should continue that practice.” Dr. Walker paused, angling her head. Her silver earrings tinkling softly with the movement.

“But,” Hermione interjected, smiling.

“But,” Dr. Walker said, returning it with a warm one of her own. “You can always knock.”

That night, for twenty minutes after he’d finished playing, she stood inside her apartment by the door. Leaning against the wall beside it. Pacing. Then she thought better of it and went to bed, where she tossed and turned in fits and starts until morning. Nearly missing her bus as she flitted about the flat to get ready, snatching his note off the floor and scribbling a reply. Running down the stairs and down the block, catching the bus just before its doors shut.

_What do you dream about?_

_Or are you one of those people who sleeps the same hours each night without interruption?_

_D_

_~_

_You can probably guess my dreams._

_I think I can guess yours._

_H_

_~_

The next day she decided she would go back over there. Why couldn’t they spend time together outside of ink on parchment? And music through the wall? She got as far as the hallway, facing the brass number 9 of his door, before chickening out for the second day in a row.

On Friday they exchanged morning notes about the worst Bertie Bott’s they’d ever eaten. Whether the pumpkin pasties on the Hogwarts Express were better than the ones at the Ministry café. All decidedly neutral topics. Another day waiting for Margaret to wave goodbye so that she could leave. A ride in an empty lift, with the lonely specter of Fred Weasley for company. She bounced her knee the entire bus ride home from work, fellow passengers be damned. The leftover curry takeaway she’d ordered on Tuesday reheated fine for supper while she listened to him play a slightly shorter set. The composition was still unfinished but he did play one of her favorite sonatas. Then she scratched Crookshanks behind the ears and marched to his door, knocking twice before he answered. A white shirt and dark grey trousers. Striped socks to match.

“Granger,” he said, as if expecting her. Though he probably heard her loud footsteps.

“I brought this,” she said, holding up the bottle of wine she’d already opened. It was probably considered uncouth. But he merely nodded and allowed her inside, bringing out the wine glasses as he’d done the week before. She shut the door behind her and turned all the locks. When he was finished pouring the wine he recast his wards and slipped his wand into his pocket.

“How are the house elves and centaurs this week?” He asked, taking a perfunctory sniff of the wine. It must have been palatable because he drank it down quickly.

She told him about her fundraising project and he gave her some advice about who to write letters to. Which of the old wizarding families would be amenable to the cause and which to stay away from. Who had money and who had friends with money. They talked about wolfsbane, and how Professor Snape had quizzed them on it in third year. How Hermione had learned of Professor Lupin’s condition.

They quickly finished her cheap bottle of wine and opened one of his.

“Do you ever think about what you wanted to be when you grew up?” She asked.

“ _Tch_ , no. At least not in detail. Every young wizard wants to play quidditch.”

“No, but there had to be something else you thought you’d do as you got older.”

He thought for a moment, twisting his lips to the side. “Nope,” he said, popping the _p_ at the end.

“You’re lying!” She exclaimed. “I saw you in the library more than someone who wants to play quidditch needs to be there. What were you aiming for when you took your O.W.L.s?”

Malfoy finished his glass and poured another. “Whatever my father decided for me.” He refilled her glass and she took a large gulp. It went down a lot smoother than the bottle she’d brought over. “Didn’t really matter what I wanted.”

The dreary rain had shifted to a thundering storm, the raindrops thick and heavy on the roof of their building. Splashing against the windows when the wind changed its direction. Their quiet neighborhood streaked with grey and punctuated by loud gales.

Hermione stared at the storm, listening. “I was always the smart one. Even before Hogwarts. Nose in a book. Hand raised—”

“For every question.” He finished for her and she smiled.

“Well, I knew the answers.” She paused and chewed on the corner of her lip. “But sometimes…When I’d read about adventures and quests to help people I wanted that for myself. And maybe that’s why I sought it out. Got caught up in it.”

“Not sure you sought it out so much as Potter dragged you into whatever scheme he hatched. You were smarter, which is probably the only reason he even survived that school—”

“Just because I was smart didn’t mean I didn’t like it. The thrill of it all. Breaking rules and pushing my magic. Liberating a dragon from Gringotts. Even when I knew things were dangerous I still got a rush from it, you know? Or when I knew what I was doing was wrong…”

He nodded and she let out a harsh breath. “But eventually—I wanted the adventure until,” she let it trail off into the air.

“Until,” he said in agreement.

They were quiet, drinking from their glasses and refilling them. Listening to the howling November wind outside. Rattling the thin windows. Hermione shivered.

“When I was younger I used to love it. The comparisons. I did whatever he asked. Whatever I thought he wanted.” Malfoy grimaced and took a deep drink of wine. She knew he meant his father. They were alike in coloring, apart from the eyes, which must have come from his mother. And his lips— she didn’t dwell on that thought. “Things were different, when he came back from Azkaban. He wasn’t the same. Or maybe he was but I was the one who was different. I thought I wanted to make him proud until…”

“Until,” she said, granting him permission to stop if he didn’t want to talk about it.

“Turns out I wasn’t very good at it. Playing pretend.”

“What were you pretending?” She asked, thinking of all the times she’d played pretend over the last six months. _So nice to see you_ and _I’m doing quite well, thank you_ and _Oh, I’ve been busy sorry I haven’t replied_.

“Do you know I used to draw?”

Hermione shook her head. The single light in the living area buzzed as the storm picked up.Blinking on and off and back on once more. He continued. “It was something I did as a child, before Hogwarts. I don’t know if I was any good at it but I liked it. Making up stories with pictures and trying to copy things from books. My mother had a beautiful copy of _Beedle the Bard_ with these watercolor illustrations. And my father—he didn’t think it suited. So I stopped.”

The only sound was the wind and rain beyond the walls.

“How often did I change something about myself for his benefit?”

She gradually moved closer, under the flimsy guise of getting more wine.

“When he went to Azkaban—I was angry. My whole stupid life I was supposed to carry on his legacy and then he was gone and that meant…” his fingers grazed his sleeve.

With the hesitation of approaching a unicorn fawn, she rested her hand over his forearm, above the symbol so fused with hate and darkness. He closed his eyes but didn’t flinch.

“Part of my sentencing was that we couldn’t live in the same home.” He laughed, a single note. “My father’s solicitor tried to fight that, saying we needed to remain a _family_ in our ancestral home, to remain together. But I took the deal. I moved where they told me to — the floor below us is occupied by an auror.”

“I thought everyone here was a Muggle?”

“The rest are, but Raymond isn’t. He’s been here a long time and agreed to be my sponsor. Comes by on Wednesday afternoons. So then I bought a piano and sent only what I needed from the manor. I’m not allowed any owls without Ministry inspection. Mother writes but…I told her I’m not allowed visitors.” He ducked his head for a moment, his jaw tightening.

Hermione felt her heart squeeze at that. But she understood it. “And does—”

“Only once. Something about ‘remember that you’re my son’ and I threw it in the bin.”

She squeezed his arm gently. The silk of his shirt soft and cool. The skin beneath warmer than her own.

“And then I felt…relieved. Like I spent the first 17 years of my life wearing shoes that didn’t quite fit. Doing whatever I was told.”

“And now you have a choice.”

The bottle was empty. The lights flickered with the wind, and they were plunged in darkness. The only light from a pine-scented candle atop the piano and another on the coffee table. The rain a tumultuous downpour.

Malfoy set his empty glass on the counter behind him, careful not to jostle her where she still held his arm. He faced her fully, letting the weight of his gaze meet hers. “I always had a choice, Granger. They were just the wrong ones.”

She had a choice too. Could take the easy way out — say goodnight and go back home. Back to the nightmares of cursed lockets and sharp teeth and a knife in her skin.

Instead she stretched on her toes, taking in the darkening smoke of his eyes, a hundred questions reflected in them, before letting herself kiss him. Unsure if he would kiss her back. But then their chests pressed together and his arm snaked around her back to hold her close, deepening the kiss.

If their first had been tender and unexpected, their second smoldered with the kind of desperation that came with longing. They held each other just a little too close, just a little too tight. His mouth slanted over hers, taking her whimpered gasp with it. Noses sliding against each other as they moved, tilting their heads with each brush of their tongues.

Soon she felt herself melt, from the feel of his fingers at the hem of her jumper, the soft sound of his breath between kisses. The warmth from her core to her fingertips to her lungs whispering for more. And it was in that moment that he grazed the skin at the small of her back, just beneath her jumper. The spark from that single touch set her ablaze.

Nipping at his lower lip and sucking it to numb the pain. Cording her fingers through the hair at the nape of his neck. Running her hand along his shoulder, pulling herself up tall. Letting him move them away from the kitchen.

If she was burning he was kerosine. The hand at her back dug into her skin and the other tugged at her curls to direct her where he wanted her, then grazed her hips, fingers looping at the waistband of her jeans. Slotting one of his legs between hers, letting her feel his desire against her. In the hardness there but also in the reverent way he held her against him, like she was fragile. Because she was. The way his kisses alternated from passionate and wanting to gentle and needy.

With a nudge of his knee he leaned her against the arm of the sofa, the grey velvet smooth and lush beneath her fingers. Perching herself in front of him. She twined her arms around his neck and he folded his tall frame over her, slim hips between her knees, inching closer. When she moved her hand to his chest, caressing the buttons at his collar, freeing them one by one, he froze and pulled back, taking a few measured steps away. To the edge of the kitchen. He ran a hand over his face, then pressed his palms against his eyes.

“What is it?” She asked, catching her breath. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing. We just shouldn’t.”

The words hung in the air and suddenly she was 13 again, with dirty blood and frizzy hair and big teeth. Hiding her tears in the halls and saving them for her four-poster in the dark. She clenched her jaw. “Because it’s me?”

“What? No. _No_ ,” he said and hesitated like he wanted to take a step towards her. “That’s not—”

“Well if it isn’t then _why_ —”

“Because I’m bloody ashamed, alright?” He shouted, then recognized his volume and lowered his voice. “Weren’t you listening? Just because I had some wine-induced pathetic confession doesn’t change anything. It doesn’t change who I’ll always be to the rest of the world. You can’t come back from this.” He gestured vaguely between them. “And you deserve better than someone who’s done terrible things.”

She interrupted him. “Really, like what? Other than what happened sixth year. I already know your heart wasn’t in that. Following orders from a despot doesn’t count. What terrible things?”

When he didn’t answer she pushed further, stepping into his space, voice shaking. “Did you ever murder anyone? Ever do anything that wasn’t demanded of you on pain of death? Or threats of torture?”

Still he said nothing, looking from her surely red-with-anger face to the floor and back. “Then I don’t think our definitions of what is terrible and what is necessary line up. I kept a reporter in a jar for months. Is that terrible? Or was it necessary to stop the spread of misinformation? Is blackmail on your list of terrible things?”

He tried to sidestep her, to put more distance between them, but she used all of her limited stature to crowd him. “Granger—”

“I’ve impersonated more than one person. Would you consider that terrible? Watched my friends use unforgivable curses — I would have, too. If it was necessary I would have done it. Would have said the words to stop someone’s heart if I had to. If it meant saving someone I cared about.” Once she’d started she couldn’t stop the words from flowing out of her mouth. The rush of a flood. Only this one was burning red. “I may not understand everything that happened to you but I’ve known conflict. We’re not— I’ve been jealous and spiteful and I think I’ve proven that I can handle myself so don’t _you_ stand there and tell me what I shouldn’t do.”

She watched his throat bob when he swallowed. Then he gave her a nearly imperceptible nod. _I get it_ , he seemed to say with the motion. But she didn’t think he did. It was too warm in the small apartment. The air too dense in the dark.

Before she left his flat she looked over her shoulder and said, “You’re not the first person to make mistakes, Draco. Just because your regrets seem bigger doesn’t mean they’re any worse than mine.”

* * *

There was no note waiting for her the next morning. It was always the first thing she did when she woke — check to see if he’d written. Crookshanks meowed loudly from his spot on her bed, perturbed and grumpy at the early hour. The sun had barely risen. She’d woken earlier than usual after restless sleep.

Instead of sitting around and waiting for a note, pacing the flat, rereading her favorite stories and eating too many biscuits and not enough meals, she decided to go out. She dressed warmly. Winter was nearing, and the air was crisp.

She stopped at the mirror by the door to tug on her hat and some gloves. A note crinkled beneath her boot. With a deep breath she reached for it, flipping the grey parchment open.

_What you said about the reporter in the jar — is that what happened to Skeeter when she took a sabbatical?_

_D_

_p.s. — You’re right. You can handle yourself._

_~_

The post script was smudged. Like he’d written it quickly. Folded the note and sent it off before losing his nerve. Some of the ink had transferred to the top of the parchment. So unlike him to leave the evidence of a mistake.

For a moment she contemplated leaving it unanswered. Letting him sweat while she wasn’t home. But she thought about how much that would have hurt her, to have one of her notes met with silence. How, though he’d caused her pain and on occasion she’d returned it, they’d understood each other. However confusing her other feelings were, she was sure about that.

_I can neither confirm nor deny that it was Skeeter._

_H_

_p.s. — I’m always right._

_~_

She slipped it under his door and went out into the quiet, early morning street. For a while she just walked with her hands in her pockets. Listening to birdsong and shops opening. Winding through the streets without a sense of direction. She hadn’t done much exploring since she moved in. Preferring to stay home with Crookshanks. But she decided to stop in a small café for a cappuccino and a croissant. And that turned into a longer adventure through the winding streets, to a used Muggle bookshop where she picked up a heavily annotated fairytale collection. She hadn’t read most of the stories since she was a girl without magic. A time she barely remembered.

When she saw a park she stopped and read for a while. Whoever had owned the book before her wasn’t precious with it. Scratching theories and underlining and folding the corners of pages. Scribbling out whatever thoughts they had. No plans. No routines. While she once would have been scandalized by it, now she admired it.

 _Don’t_ , she’d said to her father as he’d started to fold the corner of a page in his book. She couldn’t remember the title. But it was probably a biography. He’d always loved history. _Relax, darling_ , he’d said. _Sometimes it’s nice to be a little reckless_.

When she’d finished reading her page she folded the top corner, just above the damp tear stain she unknowingly added to the margin. Ran her hand over the cover and put the book into her tote bag. The faces of her parents kept her company for a few blocks. Her mum’s round face smiling and brown eyes bright. Her dad’s salt and pepper curls and thick eyebrows, so expressive. They were different from what they’d looked like that day. When she obliterated them. Like they were happy now. And maybe they were. She’d chosen Australia for its distance, it had seemed the safest place, but it was also always on their bucket list.

She looped around her neighborhood and stopped at her favorite bakery for a banoffee pie. Mum’s specialty. One of the few times she encouraged eating sugar. It was her dad’s favorite. Her heart squeezed.

By the time she finally went home it was nearly sundown. Her nose was red from cold and as soon as the door was shut behind her she pulled her wand from her pocket and set the kettle to boil. Sent her new book to the top of the pile in her room. Took off her boots and layers. Then she picked up the next note and went back to her routines. Takeaway and a piano concert just for her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [rêverie](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_CUC2-S1NMI&list=PLuxCmvu3Xj1PuYHDzISQn-7Rc0Ohsd7no&index=175) (reverie, in English) is another word for daydream or being lost in thought.


	4. Þú ert jörðin

The shorter days flowed into December. Sunlight become more precious. The air was cold enough for little flurries of snow on her walk to the bus stop in the early mornings. Cold enough to see her breath.

_What do you miss the most about the castle?_

_H_

_~_

_In third year I found a balcony behind one of the tapestries on my way to Trelawney’s classroom._

_I_ _used to go there whenever I wanted to be alone. Spent a lot of time there sixth year. And seventh._

_Now it’s gone._

_Your turn._

_Other than the library. Don’t be a cliché._

_D_

_~_

_There was a rock on the shore of the lake that was sloped and you could lean back against it. Look up at the stars if it was dark enough. It was the perfect place to read without being bothered during the day. I didn’t look for it when I went back._

_H_

_~_

Dr. Walker surveyed her from her leather armchair. Resting her pen against her chin.

“Harry and I found a new Indian restaurant that we like, so most of our lunches have been there,” Hermione said. “Ginny’s coming home in a few weeks for Christmas and will meet us there.”

“That will be nice, to get to see them together,” Dr. Walker said.

“I’m hoping that my project is fully funded by then. I’ve had a few more donors since last week and we’re nearly at our goal.”

“And how does that feel? To see something you’ve been working hard at reach a milestone?”

Hermione thought for a moment. If she could secure another large donation, they would be able to brew enough wolfsbane for all of the registered children for an entire year. “It feels brilliant,” she said. “Like I can finally take a breath.”

Dr. Walker nodded and clasped her hands. “And do you feel as though you’ve reached a milestone yourself?”

“Well, I suppose so. I wrote all of the letters and handled all of the paperwork—”

“I meant in your personal life.”

She shook her head. “I’m not sure I have, no. Not much has changed there.”

“Really? That’s not what I see,” Dr. Walker said, a bemused smile on her face.

“I,” Hermione let her mouth close and frowned. In the last month she’d started to have lunch with Harry every Tuesday. Made plans with Ginny. She’d even stopped by the shop to say hi to Ron one day on her way back to the office from a midday walk. It was something. “I suppose you’re a little bit right.”

“It might not seem like much, but you’re making progress. I’m proud of you, Hermione.”

The bus was late and she didn’t mind. It was a lovely night and there was no need to rush.

The next day she woke early and chuckled when she saw his note.

_What do you think is worse: the taste of Polyjuice or the texture?_

_D_

_~_

_It’s the texture. Though the smell is as foul as you expect._

_H_

_~_

_You say that quite definitively._

_D_

_~_

_Because I’m always right, as you established._

_And I’ve drunk it. If you can call it that._

_Three times I think?_

_H_

_~_

_You can’t be serious._

_Are you?_

_Is that how you impersonated people?_

_D_

_~_

In hindsight, she should have done her shopping in Diagon, where she could have shrunk her purchases until she got home. Instead she’d gone to a Muggle Christmas market to purchase presents for the Weasleys and Harry. Carrying a stack of unwieldy parcels onto a bus and then down the block to her apartment left her panting. Luck was on her side, however, when she saw someone enter the building just ahead of her.

“Excuse me!” She called out. “Hold the door, please!”

When she reached the top of the front steps she saw Draco with a bag of groceries, keeping the door open for her.

“Thanks,” she said, face flushed. They walked upstairs in tandem. “Was it shopping day?”

“Thursdays and Mondays, yeah.”

They lingered in the hallway. She hadn’t seen him in a few weeks, though they talked every day. And he played for her every night. He shifted the bag in his arm, and fiddled with his keys.

“Actually,” he started, then cleared his throat. “I was going to invite you for dinner tomorrow. Round eight? If—if you’re free.”

“I’m always free,” she said, and chuckled darkly. Shifting the boxes of caramels and wool socks and other gifts. “Dinner sounds nice. I’ll bring wine—a nice bottle, even.”

The corner of his lips turned upward, not quite a smile on anyone else but it reached his eyes. There was something beautiful about it — unfinished but full of promise.

“Don’t go to too much trouble, Granger. I never said I was a good cook.” Somehow she doubted he was less than good at most things. He unlocked his door and muttered the spell to open his wards and she did the same. “See you tomorrow.”

“See you,” she said. When her door shut, she flicked her wand to lock it and seal the wards once more. Set her parcels on the table. Then she added food to Crookshanks’ bowl, for which he purred like a motorbike against her calf.

At nine o’clock, he played all of her favorites. But unlike nearly every night before, for six months, he didn’t play the original song. Perhaps he’d given up on it, she thought. Or maybe he’d go back to it one day, when he felt inspired.

Nothing in her wardrobe felt right for dinner with her…neighbor. Like the dresses that hung there belonged to someone else. And in a way, they did. She’d chosen them before. Had only worn comfortable favorites like jeans and jumpers since, even if they weren’t as professional as some of the robes her colleagues wore. But she wanted to look…nice. Not like her old self but like the self she was hoping to become, one day, when things felt less sharp. For the first time in a long time, she wanted something new.

There was no note on Friday so she sent him one of her own.

_Looking forward to dinner._

_If you burn it, I know all the best takeaway places._

_H_

_~_

On her lunch break she popped into a Muggle boutique not far from the Ministry. She walked by it from her bus stop and had always admired the kind of person who shopped there. The way the window displays felt like art. She let herself feel the different fabrics and think about the colors and textures in a way that she hadn’t bothered with before. Most of what she owned was practical.

A black wrap dress caught her eye. It was classic. Still comfortable. And the shopkeeper said it complimented her figure. So she bought it.

The rest of the day was a blur of memos and letters. Writing reports. Anything to keep herself busy enough to pass the time. She didn’t wait for Margaret’s goodbye wave before heading to the lifts at five sharp. Enduring smalltalk in the elevator and on the way out of the building.

On the way home she stopped at the wine shop and spent far too much money on a bottle that looked like the one he’d had the last time she went over to his flat. And since she was there she picked up a few bottles of her favorite affordable red. She was nervous but calm as she got ready. She used a little product in her hair and tamed some of the curls with her wand. Put the tiniest dab of French perfume at her wrist, dabbing it on her pulse points. Mascara made her wide brown eyes even bigger. It was the only makeup she bothered with. The dress flowed down her torso, stopping a few inches above the knee. When she twirled in the mirror she felt pretty, watching the silk skirt spin.

At two minutes to eight she slipped her shoes on — practical flats. Crookshanks had hissed when she reached for her slippers. He was right, too informal. Then she grabbed the pricey wine bottle and one of the other ones. Just in case.

The door to apartment 9 opened after her first knock, but Draco was busy in the kitchen. Magicking pots and pans on the hob to stir themselves. Adding fresh herbs to something that smelled divine.

“Granger,” he said, taking a moment to look at her.

“Hello,” she replied, twisting her bracelet around her wrist. He wore a deep forest green jumper and black trousers. The socks on his feet were black, too.

He opened his mouth to say something then seemed to think better of it and cleared his throat.

“I brought wine,” she said quickly, bringing it over to him. One of his fingers skimmed hers as he took the bottle and read the label. A slight smile on the corners of his mouth. When he looked at her, it was captivating — the way he seemed to scan over her slowly, throat bobbing.

“You look,” he started, and seemed to shake his head, to free the cobwebs or rattle the thoughts. “You’re so lovely.”

She blushed and took the wine back, opening his cupboards to look for the glasses. While she poured he took dishes and cutlery out. He served them plates of mushroom risotto that he levitated to the coffee table. Hermione walked over to the sofa and perched herself near the center, where she could reach the table. A grey cloth napkin draped across her lap and he sat next to her.

“I feel like I should apologize for not having a proper dining table,” he said between bites. “I eat most of my meals leaning over the counter. My mother would be horrified.”

The thought made her laugh. They were sitting closer to each other on the couch, shoulders brushing. She turned so that her knee rested against his leg. Feeling her skin warm at the contact.

They talked about Shakespeare, who Draco was adamant was a wizard, and how he spent the first two weeks in the flat surviving on bread and fruit. He’d used one of his approved trips outside to buy a couple cookbooks and teach himself how to read Muggle recipes.

“Bit of a disaster for a while. Surprised you didn’t smell my poor attempt at ratatouille a few months ago,” he said.

They smiled a lot, though they were shy smiles. Enjoying each other’s company and the food and the wine. Soon their plates were cleared and the wine refilled. Draco rested an arm behind him, propping his head against his fist. Some of her curls tickled his sleeve.

“Do you ever see ghosts?” He asked, the words tentative. “Not like the Baron but—”

“People I’ve lost?”

He narrowed his eyes and nodded.

“Not every day. Not anymore. But yes. On the bus, most of the time. Something about the stops, I think. Makes it easier for the grief to play tricks on you,” she said, theorizing as she went.

“I used to see Vin — Crabbe. Only he was how I last saw him, in the Room of Hidden Things.”

Just before the fiendfyre took him. Hermione had nightmares about it. “You don’t see him anymore?”

“We weren’t all that great at being friends. I was good at…leading, I guess. But Theo was the first friend I ever had. I see his face more.” He tapped the rim of his wine glass. Clinking the family ring against it.

“Is he one of the ones who won’t speak to you?” She ventured a guess. He confirmed it with a sniff.

“Lost his inheritance when his father went to Azkaban. Not sure where he even is now.”

She thought for a moment, but she didn’t know much of anything about Theodore Nott, Jr, other than his name. That his father had been a high-ranking Death Eater. “I could look into it,” she said quietly. “If you want. Harry could probably find out.”

“You don’t have to do anything.”

“If you want me to—”

“I’ve sort of resigned myself to being alone,” he said. “Better that way, like you said.”

“I thought so,” she replied, “but there’s this Muggle saying — misery loves company.”

Draco snorted, then finished his wine. “That what we are? Miserable?”

“Yes but we do have each other, hence the company.” With a flick of her wand their empty dishes floated to the sink to wash themselves.

“Then I suppose that’s better.” As he said it, she felt his little finger twitch against her hand. The touch was featherlight, and his fingers danced across the back of her hand until he covered it with his own. “Can cry in pairs.”

She felt the contours of his palm with her thumb, turning his hand to lace it with her own. “I don’t cry much anymore. I used to cry whenever I was frustrated or angry, not just sad. Now it’s like I’ve used it all up.”

“Do you ever wish you had more tears?”

“Sometimes. When it hurts a lot and I don’t know what else to do.”

“That’s the worst of it. Not knowing what to do,” he said.

“Can you believe my supervisor is demanding I have two weeks off for Christmas? I really don’t know what to do with all that free time.”

“Will you see your family?”

She looked away from him and he squeezed her hand. “No, not this year. Think I’ll be here. Can get some books from the library. Maybe teach myself how to cook.”

“A surprisingly useful skill,” he deadpanned.

Hermione chuckled. “Will you go to the Manor?”

“No. I won’t go back there for a while,” he said, letting out a huff. She nodded and he eyed her curiously. “You don’t want to be with Potter and the Weasleys? You’d rather be alone?”

“I’d rather stay with you,” she said, letting herself look at him fully. The vulnerability he’d always tried to keep hidden written plainly on his face. He swallowed and she watched him wet his lips. Lean closer. Tilt his head when he was only a few centimeters away. Watched until the exact moment he kissed her.

Her eyes closed and she hummed against his mouth, felt herself sigh. Wanting and pliant as he rested his hand at the nape of her neck. Her own curled at the front of his jumper. The innocence of their lips soon matured, growing bolder. His tongue swept through her mouth and when she massaged it with her own he groaned, pulling her closer.

There was still too much space between them. She pushed him back against the couch and straddled his lap, needing to connect as many places as she could. Immediately he pressed a hand at the base of her spine, encouraging her to slide forward. His hands spanned her ribs, holding her tight. Rocking her against him while his thumbs grazed the sides of her breasts. One of his hands palmed her, slipping under her neckline to trace the lace of her bra.

“Don’t push me away this time,” she whispered, squeezing her eyes shut and opening them again.

When their eyes met once more, she decided that they were like the sky after a storm. Grey clouds, yes, but blue slowly peeking through. A promise that things would get better, no matter how dark they once seemed.

“I won’t,” he breathed against her lips before meeting them with his own. “I won’t.” He whispered again and again.

They pressed closer, burdened by layers of clothing. She stood and helped him up but when she reached for the button of his trousers he swatted her hand away and did it himself. Ever practical, she cast a contraceptive charm before climbing back onto his lap. She went to take off his jumper but he stilled her hands and untied her dress instead. Pulling the sash and parting the silk until it fell from her shoulders, pooling at her elbows. Staring at her. He swallowed, and she watched his eyes darken when he dipped his head to kiss her exposed neck. Leaving hot, trailing kisses while he held her hip, holding her to him. Brushing against her core in the process.

Fingers stepping up her spine to unclasp her bra. She shrugged the dress to the floor and tossed her bra somewhere behind her. Capturing his mouth once more. Messing his hair further with a few tugs. When she couldn’t bear the tension coiling any more she turned to whisper in his ear. “Touch me. Please.”

He took his time, trailing the tip of his finger from where he’d been gripping her hair down her throat, stopping to feel her pulse quicken before continuing the path to her collarbone. Bringing goosebumps over her arms when he circled one of the peaks of her breasts and then the other. Pausing to kiss her thoroughly, moving lower as she became breathless with it. Biding his time before finally slipping under the cotton to feel her.

It wasn’t the clumsy first-time touches she’d had with Ron. Or the more assertive but not quite right ones with Viktor a few weeks later. When she was willing to try anything to take the pain away. Even an ill-advised night of drinking with her former first everything-but when she was fresh off of ending things with the boy she thought could be her forever.

Draco’s touches were careful and practiced, with the right amount of pressure to coax the notes from her. To hitch her breath and send a tingling shiver down every inch of her spine, down to the tips of her toes. Long fingers playing her softly and deftly, bringing sounds she’d never known she could make from her throat. Swallowing them with his mouth. Tangling their tongues in time with the movement of his fingers. Withdrawing them as he gave her a final chaste peck.

Draco hitched her legs tighter to his hips and flipped her onto the couch, startling her into a laugh. A real laugh, not the practiced chuckle she used to keep up appearances. And he laughed, too. So different than the cold trill he’d had as a child, when she’d only heard him laugh after a particularly coarse insult or act of bullying. Of her and others.

But this was warm. A rumbled chuckle that felt like hot cider in the middle of winter. She wanted more of it.

“What are you laughing at?” He asked, a spark of mischief in his eye. Kneeling above her on the cushions. Toying with her waistband and drinking in the sight of her beneath him. “I know I’m terribly funny but I don’t recall making a joke.”

She watched him skate across the elastic, pinched between his thumb and forefinger. The cool silver of his ring against her stomach. Teasing her.

“Nothing really I just—” she gasped when he peeled her underwear down her thighs, “felt like it.”

He stepped away to remove them completely. Devouring her with hungry eyes before lowering himself back onto the couch, bracketing her hips with his arms. His answering chuckle sent warm breath against her and she heard herself gasp. Then her curled an arm around her thigh and circled her navel with his other hand, chuckling once more before bending closer.

“Good,” he said, “I feel like something else.”

The first touch of his mouth tickled, but she held in whatever giggle might have escaped. When he flicked her with his tongue she had to bite down on her lip, first because she feared a laugh but quickly because she heard herself whimper when his lips closed over her clit. And hummed. She held the arm of the couch with one hand and his hair with the other, unsure if she wanted to hold him closer or pull him away as he worked her. Alternating licking and sucking, pressing into her with his long fingers. His eyes rarely leaving her own, as if he wanted to watch her reactions. Hear the little mewls and the husky moans while she trembled. Conducting her higher, until she burst forth into sound — a symphony of sensation that flashed white behind her eyes.

She was still catching her breath when she felt him rise from the couch. Could see the hardness of him against his black trunks. He sat on the edge of the sofa beside her waist, tugging one of her curls. And with that one gesture she’d never felt more cherished.

With one hand on his knee, she scooted herself back to sit up, aware of her heavier breaths and the little drops of sweat at her nape. When she kissed him she was unhurried. Unbothered by the taste of herself on his tongue. She let her hand move closer to his length. Reveling in the way his breath hitched when she teased it and pulled free from the kiss.

“I’ve never seen your bedroom,” she said, touching him more boldly. “Are you hiding anything interesting in there?”

The double entendre wasn’t intentional but she laughed at it anyway. Savoring the sound of his answering laugh. “Hope you like quidditch memorabilia and a life-size portrait of my great aunt Gemini.”

Hermione rolled her eyes as he scooped her into his arms. “As if it’s anything but luxurious neutral bedding—”

“She likes to heckle me,” he said into her ear, grazing it lazily with his teeth before crossing the few steps into his room.

But when she bounced onto the bed, giggling, she was pleased that her assumptions were right. Only the finest cotton linens and a soft but firm mattress. Entirely too many pillows. Cream sheets and a grey duvet.

She hadn’t laughed, with the others. Seeking pleasure had always come with guilt. The guilt of knowing that it would never be the right fit with Ron. How it had hurt her to tell him. The guilt of using Viktor for something he’d confessed he’d always wanted. And maybe that was what had been missing. Not just hormones and two willing partners. But the ineffable trust of your most vulnerable self with another person. Someone who understood your joy and accepted your rage. Who could laugh with you in one moment and know your fears in the next.

Draco stood in front of her, hesitant.

“I’ve done this before,” she said quietly, “if you were—”

“No, it’s not that,” he replied, reaching down to his hem. The dark green cashmere so striking with his pale features.

She sat up. “You can tell me,” she said.

“You’re perfect. But—”

When he pulled the knit off, carefully dropping it to the floor, he gradually met her eyes. One of his hands tracing over the brutal scar that bisected his torso. From just above his heart, diagonally across the flesh to stop at his hip. Little tributaries extending out from it. The usually haughty tilt of his chin was nowhere to be found. Instead he looked as though he wanted to hide. But she wouldn’t let him. He had other scars, too, and so did she.

“So are you,” she said, and she grabbed for his hand to pull him closer, so that she could press her lips to where the constellation of a scar was its most gruesome. The lines pink and puckered. The kind of hurried healing that would always leave a reminder. Like the carved letters on her arm. Healed in a rush.

Good healing took time. It took care and patience. Sometimes it could take a lot longer than expected. She pulled back to look at him and he leaned over her to kiss her lips once more. She kissed him with a desperation that she felt reflected back at her. Because even though she knew she would feel fear and pain and grief — that there was no timeframe for it, and it might last forever — the tiny cracks had started to fill. Maybe it would never get better. But it would get less sharp.

She wound her arms around his shoulders and leaned back on the bed, taking him with her. Feeling the warmth of his scars on her skin. Sinking her teeth into the swell of his lip, then the spot on his neck that smelled the most like him. Like autumn rain and crackling embers and sweet caramel.

While she left marks she knew he’d curse her for in the morning, he finally rid himself of that final layer and pressed her back, covering her with his tall frame. Turning them so that they were on their sides, legs tangled while he touched her again. When she took him in hand he sucked in a breath and she loved the sound. Every melody from his lips against her and from his hands across the piano keys played through her mind as she guided him to her entrance. Swinging her leg high over his hip as they rocked together. Moving in tandem to close the final distance between them.

It was slow at first, an easy pace while their bodies acclimated to each other. Hermione liked that they held each other. Similar to the feeling you got from a particularly bone-squeezing embrace. Only she could feel the little puffs of his breath and the indentations of his fingers on her hip. They whispered to each other as they sought their pleasure, both given and received. Then he turned them so that she could control the movement from above while he looked up at her with wide, glassy eyes. A lock of platinum hair clung to his forehead. She decided she was allowed to brush it back. To trace patterns on his cheek. The adoration in his gaze almost overwhelmed her.

She’d always liked being in charge, taking the lead. And as she leaned back, taking him deeper, she liked that, too. Liked the moans he made because of it. The way that his grip on her was tight. The way he rose to meet her with his hips. When she leaned forward he surged up to kiss her, hard and swift before she pushed him back to the mattress, leaning her weight against his chest until she found the friction she was searching for.

It became harder to keep the pace as she climbed higher. Her skin feverish and overcome with the need to kiss him again and again, letting him pick up where she had left off. When he flipped them again, she moaned, the sharper thrusts hit right where she needed them to. She carded her fingers in his hair, mouthing at his earlobe while he reached where they were connected and played her like quick scales until at last she sang out. Her breath caught in her throat as he dragged it out, keeping her suspended in bliss as he rolled into her again and again. Joining her with a call of his own. Panting between peppered half kisses on her face, her neck, her collarbone. She held him in her arms. A squeezing hug. Like if they held each other tightly, if they held each other closer, they could keep the feeling of safety and pleasure and calm just a little longer.

“Stay with me,” he whispered. She nodded, bumping their noses together when she went to kiss him lightly. Feeling his shoulder blades under her arms and his chest against hers. Their breath slowing.

They held each other until the moonlight passed through the blinds and everything was black.

* * *

It was still fully dark when Hermione stirred. They’d fallen asleep facing each other, bodies intertwined. They must have slept for only an hour or two. When she chanced a look at his face, he was awake, too.

“Can’t sleep?” She asked and he shook his head. Though she was loathe to lose his warmth for even a fraction of a second she summoned her wand using a bit of wandless magic. With a few twirls she produced a small orb of glowing amber light and let it float high above their heads. Just enough so that she could look into his eyes.

After she placed her wand on the nightstand she reached back for him and he took her hand, pressing his lips to her knuckles. She liked to trace the lines of his fingers with hers, linking them together and feeling the smooth pads against her own. The little bits of scarred flesh like hieroglyphics for her to uncover with every touch.

“What do you have to do? For your probation?”

He furrowed his brow, the grip on her fingers tightening. “What do you mean?”

She swallowed. “You told me about all the limitations but not the rest. You said you had to do…boring things. Like what?”

For a while he was quiet, and she tilted her head to look at him. He sat up against the pillows, pulling her up with him. “You really want to know?”

“Of course I do,” she said, brushing his hair back. Letting the soft strands fall back into their newer style. He reached over her for his wand and summoned a small wooden box, letting it drop on the bed at their feet.

“Go ahead,” he said, sitting up to lean against the headboard. She looked at him curiously before reaching for the wooden lid, tilting it open. Inside the box was dozens of letters. Hermione ran her fingers over the indentation from his signet ring in the shimmering wax seal. “Open one.”

She snapped her head back toward him “What? I can’t just open someone else’s mail.”

With an impatient sigh he ripped the letter from her hand and used his wand to slide the paper from the wax seal. Then he handed it back to her. In the elegant script she’d grown so accustomed to was a letter addressed to Colin Creevey’s parents. She scanned it and one part stood out among the rest.

_Please know that I am very sorry for the loss of your son and for the part I played in the war that took his life._

“Are they all like this?” She asked, lowering the letter to her lap. The words were genuine — she could feel it in the slope of his penmanship. He nodded and held her gaze.

“Part of my probation is to seek atonement. Writing seemed like the best option, for me.”

As he spoke she sifted through the letters, tallying them. “There’s a few dozen here—”

“Yes, Raymond collects them in batches of 50.”

Hermione paused and turned back to him. “How many have you written?”

“Hmm, maybe a few hundred? Lost count weeks ago.”

In her hands she held letters to names familiar and unknown. The parchment thick and creamy, a warm beige. “Have you—Does anyone ever write back?” She asked.

“Not sure. Raymond takes them to the Ministry and they do the rest,” he said with a shrug. “I’m not sure I need them to write back.”

She closed the box and he flicked his wand to return it to its resting place by his desk. 

“My therapist…She says I have to find a way to forgive to myself.”

“For what?”

Of all the things they’d talked about and written about, she’d always held this one final truth close. Because if she said it out loud, she would see their faces. Hermione took three measured breaths. “I took my parents memories. Made them forget me. Forget so much. I sent them away without hesitating, in the moment. Even if they remembered me someday I don’t know if— It was the right thing but it was also the worst thing I’ve ever done, I think. Not sure it can be forgiven.”

But she wasn’t confronted with the confused look on her mum’s face, or her father’s shock when she obliviated her first. Instead she saw the understanding in the eyes of the young man beside her.

“The worst thing I’ve ever done,” he looked at his hands and paused. Hermione rested a hand at his jaw, tilting it so that he faced her. “Is nothing.”

The pad of her thumb brushed his cheek and he leaned into her touch, the edge of his lips grazing her wrist. She watched his pale throat rise and felt his jaw clench and release.

“A girl I knew was tortured in front of me. In my own house. And I did nothing. I don’t know how I’m supposed to apologize for that.”

The shimmer in his eyes matched her own. Tears that settled in. Never quite falling.

“I find that _I’m sorry_ works well. Perhaps you should start there. See how it goes.” She smiled, and felt one of her tears waver. Then blinked it away.

He gently removed her hand from his face and moved to the edge of the bed to put his boxers back on and grab his wand.

“Would you cast a silencing charm?” he asked as he left the room, walking on quiet feet to the piano. “I’m not supposed to but it’s late and the tenants below us…”

She summoned her underwear from the living room, laughing to herself as she did so, and snagged his jumper from the floor. It was heaven against her skin and she tossed her hair out of the neckline. Then she performed the spell and joined him on the bench.

There was a chill to the air that didn’t seem to bother him, but she cast a warming charm anyway. Draco waved his wand to produce sheet music. Then he muttered a spell as he trailed it over the keys and onto the paper before setting it down on the music rack.

With his eyes closed he rested his hands above the instrument and took a breath. Then he started. As he played the notes began to write themselves onto the parchment. Each one more sure than she’d heard before. The composition was soft like melancholy, and she knew the feeling of it better than anything. It had comforted her for weeks. The song was complete now, she knew by the way he formed the chords and flowed over the keys with precise movements. It was beautiful and haunting, like the blue smoke of his eyes, clear and focused. As the melodies washed over her she felt something she hadn’t felt in a long time. She felt hopeful.

The song finished in a series of soothing notes, trailing off until he lifted his hands from the keys to gather the sheet music.

“You finished it,” she said. “I’ve been waiting for the end.”

“I’ve always known how it ends,” he replied, grabbing a quill from the cup on top of the piano.

“But it sounded like you were changing it whenever you’d play it. Like it wasn’t complete.”

“Because I wasn’t ready before.” He dipped the quill in fresh ink. In his precise script he wrote _For Hermione_ at the top. Her name had never looked so beautiful.

“I’ve been trying to figure out what to say for months,” he said. “At first I wrote you letters…a lot of letters but they sounded hollow. Then I saw a picture of you in the paper one day, a few weeks after I moved in.”

She remembered it. They’d done a fluffy little feel good piece about the young war heroes’ return to Hogwarts, a month after. Taking pictures and asking basic questions, nothing too controversial. Nothing that might make it seem like anything wasn’t normal. While her friends had smiled, she couldn’t bring the muscles in her face to make the shape. On the front page of the _Prophet_ was a photo of her, flanked by Harry and Ron’s grins. And between them she looked small and sad and broken. The castle behind them full of ghosts.

“You just looked so…different, than I remembered. Something in your eyes was like mine, when I look in a mirror. I started composing,” he stopped himself and laughed. The warm chuckle that fit so well with the deep notes of his song. Her song. It was for her. “Don’t know why. It’s not like I knew you. What if you didn’t like music or you preferred the cello or something and yet I was spending months trying to write you an apology on the piano.”

She took the sheet music and traveled over the lines with her eyes, reading it with her limited knowledge of major and minor and adagio and rests. “Will you teach it to me?”

“This might be a bit advanced for you—” Hermione pinched his side and grinned, earning one of his rarest smiles in return. Boyish and unplanned. The echo of the music still hummed in her ears. She watched his face crumple, felt his hand tense at the small of her back as he leaned closer. “I’m sorry,” he whispered against her skin. “I’m so sorry, Hermione.” He said it over and over until the words were just shapes against her temple.

She nudged his chin to rest her forehead on his, forcing him to look at her.

“I understand,” she said. He frowned at her and she continued. “You were scared. We were—”

“They didn’t believe me. They didn’t care. But I should have done… _anything_. I was a coward—”

“I forgive you,” she said, hoping that her words were clear even though they were ragged with emotion. “It’s okay. I forgive you. It’s going to be okay. We’re okay.”

And as she said it she knew that for the first time in over a year it _was_ okay. She was okay. Because she was finally ready to start to forgive the one person she hadn’t planned on forgiving. Herself.

When she kissed him it was delicate. The kind of kiss you kept cradled in your memories, careful to keep it forever. Wrapped in wispy clouds and starlight.

“You really want me to teach you?” He asked, tucking a curl behind her ear. Lingering there for an extra moment. She nodded.

The first keys were clumsy, but he was patient with her. For every note he played she heard his apology. When she repeated them back she hoped he heard hers, too. When it indeed became too advanced for her she watched his hands dance across the keys. And she felt another stitch mend her healing soul.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Þú Ert Jörðin](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TXjrFW26k1Y) translates to "you are the earth."
> 
> A huge thanks to [Fran](https://twitter.com/galacticidiots) for the initial prompt and to [zeynep](https://twitter.com/darklingmalfoy) for the images that inspired it. All my love to iconicnovel for helping me with one of the note exchanges in this chapter and for letting me send her every barely noticeable edit to my Twitter cover images. To my pals in the Squad, thank you for keeping me going on the worst of days.
> 
> A note about grief and loss, from someone who has spent the last year living with a lot of it. It’s okay to talk about it or not talk about. It’s okay to feel the way that you feel, even if it's guilt or rage or sorrow or joy. It’s okay to laugh. The best bit of advice I received when my dad died was that the pain of loss doesn’t go away but **it does get less sharp**. So if you’re grieving, I’d like to pass that on to you. And if you ever need someone to listen, find me on [twitter](https://twitter.com/xDarkoftheMoon) or [tumblr](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/xdarkofthemoon). We can pass notes over DM, and I’ll send you sad piano music to accompany it.
> 
> * * *
> 
> 🌙 For more Dramione, check out the multi-chapter [Tremble & Depart](https://archiveofourown.org/works/27903571/chapters/68329363): _Draco Lucius Malfoy. Death Eater. Disposable. Life on probation at the Ministry meant keeping his head down and his mouth shut. On his first field assignment he’s tasked with investigating an abandoned Death Eater manor hiding more than a few secrets in its walls. Stuck with the only witch who agreed to work with him._
> 
> 🌛 A divination, tea leaves, astrology-themed one shot with alternating present day Hermione and flashback Draco POVs. [The Moon in Gemini](https://archiveofourown.org/works/29478921): _In third year Professor Trelawney predicted that Hermione Granger would fall in love with a foe. Specifically, a Gemini. That theirs would be a passionate and intellectual union. What rubbish._
> 
> 🍷 [Poison & Wine](https://archiveofourown.org/works/27293806): _Under a full moon on Halloween night a game of seven minutes in heaven changes things for a certain witch and wizard._
> 
> 🥀 If you happen to be a Reylo-Dramione in need of a crossover fic (alternating POVs!), check out [Death-marked Love](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26546116/chapters/64710325): _Rey Niima was born cursed. If anyone in the Palpatine line fell in love, they would watch their loved one die in their arms. For Rey, this is merely a minor inconvenience. But for her close friend Hermione Granger, it's a problem that needs solving. A chance encounter with Draco Malfoy leads to a visit from cursebreaker Ben Solo, an American who specializes in legacy curses and ancestral magic. And happens to be a direct descendant of the wizard who cursed Rey's family in the first place._
> 
> Thank you so much for reading 🖤  
> xx Lu


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